


My love, I’m in love with you

by writergirl8



Series: 30 Minute Fics [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Married Life, There's a puppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 10:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13479903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: “You’re not naked.”It’s the first thing Lydia says to him when his camera finally flutters to life. No ‘hello.’ No, ‘I miss you.’ No ‘where did you get thatfetchingtie, darling?’ which doesn’t sound like Lydia in the first place, but hell, it wouldn’t kill her to say it every once in a while. Instead he gets a disapproving frown and a black robe being instantly pulled up to cover the ample cleavage her bra displays.“I distinctly remember telling you to be naked the next time we spoke.”





	My love, I’m in love with you

**Author's Note:**

> Dylan O'Brien played with puppies and this happened. It's been in my head for a while, but I took a sec to write it because he was the cutest little celery stick on this side of the equator. Title from The Words by Christina Perri which is a lit Stydia song. As per usual, I didn't edit this and I wrote it in 30 minutes. It's more of a feels dump than actual writing that is interesting or good. 
> 
> Hope you're having a good week!

“You’re not naked.”

It’s the first thing Lydia says to him when his camera finally flutters to life. No ‘hello.’ No, ‘I miss you.’ No ‘where did you get that _fetching_ tie, darling?’ which doesn’t sound like Lydia in the first place, but hell, it wouldn’t kill her to say it every once in a while. Instead he gets a disapproving frown and a black robe being instantly pulled up to cover the ample cleavage her bra displays. 

“I know, I know. I just had to tell you something and I thought—”

“I distinctly remember telling you to be naked the next time we spoke.” 

“Right, but—” 

“And I remember you _agreeing_ because you made that egregious joke about it not even being your birthday so why should you let me see you in your birthday suit.”

“Ha. Yeah. That still stands.”

“Stiles,” Lydia says, voice frustrated now. The satan of her robe has fallen a little to the side, offering him a glimpse of creamy white breasts that rise and fall over lilac bra cups. “Why are you not naked.”

“Because,” he repeats, patient this time. “I have to tell you something, and I didn’t think you would want me to do it with my clothes off.” 

“I _always_ want you to do it with your clothes off.” 

He shoots her a look. 

“Are you going to be serious right now?”

Lydia sighs, tying off the robe so that it sits securely over her body. 

“This is what happens when I’ve gone this long without sex.” She fixes him with a pointed glare. “This is your fault.”

“I take complete blame,” Stiles promises. “But… I’m gonna have to take the blame for a little bit longer.” 

Lydia’s lips part for a brief moment, then tighten. Her nostrils flare. He decides that telling her this without grovelling a little bit first was probably a bad decision to make. 

“You haven’t identified whether the killer was supernatural yet?”

Stiles shakes his head. 

“No.”

A moment later, she’s flopping backwards onto their bed, her head landing where his pillow would have been had he not taken it with him on the airplane. Lydia drags her laptop with her and moves it over her face so that he can see her still, but the expression she offers him just makes him feel worse. If she were behaving like she was annoyed, or irked, or even disgruntled, Stiles would know how to handle that. After all, Lydia’s primary setting when approaching unpleasant things is fixating on any emotion that isn’t the one she’s feeling. But right now, he can see the disappointment drawn into the lines on her face. He can see the worry tugging at her brain. And he doesn’t need her to tell him that she misses him because he knows it just by looking at her. 

“When you said you had time to talk I assumed we’d be having skype sex.”

“I know, babe,” he says, a little condescendingly. “That was a reasonable deduction.” 

She rolls over onto her elbows, placing the laptop on his nightstand so that they can have a normal conversation. 

“Do you…” She pauses, swallowing a bit. “Do you need any help?”

“That’s really sweet, but no.” He knows as well as she does that Lydia attempting to trigger her own banshee powers can often lead to an increase in fugue states. Even though Scott’s with her in California, he doesn’t feel right asking her to do something like that, especially in the middle of her semester. It’s not as bad when he’s home, when he feels her shift out of the bed and walk to the door, when he is able to jolt himself awake _just_ enough to cover her with a coat and get a pair of shoes for her to walk home in. But he tries not to ask her to do things like that because the number one most important thing in Stiles Stilinski’s life is never harming the number one most important person in the universe. “You offering is enough, seriously.” 

She smiles at that, pulling the blanket up around her. 

“I know you’ll get it,” she tells him, and Lydia’s so _genuine_ that suddenly he knows she’s right; there is nobody smarter than his wife. In that moment, he feels the tug at his naval that indicates not that he’s missing his spouse, but that he’s really missing the other end of his tether— the person who tugs at his string so that she can pull him home to her no matter where he is. 

It’s one thing to miss their home, their life, their normalcy when he’s holed up in a hotel room across the country. He drives to foreign precincts every day, investigates with cops he doesn’t know or feds with whom he only has a passing acquaintance, and he wishes, as he always does, that he were in his living room talking the case over with Lydia. But it’s another thing to let himself feel missing her so fully; to remember that half of his heart is thousands of miles away.

“If it’s actually supernatural, I’m going to have to stay longer,” he admits, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Lydia’s face betrays nothing. “The evidence is conflicting, which is why they’re still keeping me here. We can’t find anything conclusive about the murders being non-supernatural, and we can’t find anything that negates the circumstantial evidence that indicates it _could_ be, but there still isn’t enough to call it.” 

Lydia, to his surprise, bites down on her thumbnail, a habit he knows for a fact she kicked in the eighth grade. 

“If you have to stay longer... Maybe I could fly out there?”

“You have students to teach and chemicals to talk creepily to like they understand what you’re saying.” 

“I can cancel a few classes. Go down there, grade papers—” 

“I’m gonna stop you right there, because if you think you’re going to get any work done while we’re in the same city, you are sadly mistaken. Especially after it’s been this long.”

She laughs, throwing her head back a little bit, the robe slipping again. 

“Hmmm. And what would you do to me that would be _so_ distracting, Mr. Stilinski?”

“ _Well_ , Mrs. Stilinski,” he replies pointedly, making her dimples appear on her cheeks, deep and settled. He likes her smile lines better than he likes any painting he’s ever seen. He thinks he had made them more pronounced, and he loves her so much for smiling for him. “Every day when I came home from work, neither of us would even have to say anything. You’d just be lying there, naked, expecting me, and as soon as I opened the door you’d already be wet for me.”

“Because I’ve been touching myself,” she supplies for him. Her nails, painted ballerina pink, are sliding down her satin robe, opening it a little bit. It falls over her shoulders, revealing a lacy, see-through bra, which Lydia rubs her fingers over. “I’ve been touching myself thinking of what you’d do when you came home.”

Stiles draws in a shaky breath. 

“Yeah,” he replies hoarsely, watching her fingers squeeze her nipple over the bra. “You waited for me.” 

The noise that Lydia makes is a combination between a moan and a sigh, and it doesn’t matter which one it really is because both of them drive Stiles fucking crazy. 

“But for now,” Lydia begins, straightening up a little bit. “I think I know what would make you happy.”

She stands, walks over to the door of their bedroom, and then tugs it open. A moment later, a small Norfolk terrier bounds up onto the bed, eyes wild and searching in confusion when he doesn’t see Stiles. 

“Luke!”

The puppy whines, inching closer to the laptop, still looking for Stiles. Lydia laughs, climbing onto the bed with him and scooping him up in her arms, giving him a kiss at the crown of his furry little head for good measure. 

“Luke, where’s daddy?” she says, raising her eyebrows. “Can you find daddy?”

“Marco!” calls Stiles, causing Luke’s ears to perk up. “Polo!”

The dog’s tongue lolls out of his mouth, tickling his butterscotch colored fur. Lydia scratches his ears as they perk up, then down when he can’t find Stiles in the room. 

“I think we’re being cruel.”

“Probably,” he agrees. “I’m not here, Luke. This was all a dream.” 

The dog wiggles into a more comfortable position in Lydia’s lap, licks her knee, and then settles down to grumpily request snuggles. 

“Would you look at that?” Lydia says fondly. “I’m the new favorite.”

“As if,” scoffs Stiles. “Loving me is the thing that bonds you two together.” 

“First of all, how dare you.” 

He laughs. Fiddles with his phone for a second, then takes a screenshot of Lydia with Luke in her lap, patting him with a fond look on her face. 

“Hey,” he says. “‘M sorry. I gotta go back to work.” 

“He’s leaving us _again_ ,” Lydia says, dramatically, to the dog. To Stiles, she says, “You’ll think about it, right? Letting me fly down and stay with you for a bit?”

She’d offered before he’d asked, which means he’s going to break eventually. He hates how often he has to go on trips like these, but this is one of the bad ones, and his wife is sitting there wearing lingerie that makes him want to melt into the ground. He may have deprived of skype sex, but he’s not going to deprive her of this. 

“I’ll think about it,” he tells her, and the way she smiles lets him know that she hears the answer in his words. 

What he really wants is to be huddled up with his wife in their home with their dog, not in this cold, dreary hotel room that lacks both color and pictures of Scott and his dad and Melissa on the walls. He wants to turn on his phone, when he sees his lock screen— a picture he’d taken of Lydia where you can see the tiny freckles on her nose— he wants to look up and see the same face. 

“Say bye to daddy,” Lydia instructs Luke, lifting his paw into a wave, and in that moment, Stiles’ heart clenches with adoration. 

“Bye Luke,” says Stiles. The dog lets out a small, disgruntled bark. “Bye, Lyds.” She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, smiling at him, and it comes out in a burst forced from his mouth by the motion: “I love, love, love you.” 

“I love, love, love you too,” Lydia responds, mock-serious. “Actually, I love, love, love, love you.” 

“Well, _I—_ ” 

“Stop,” she says, putting up her hand. “Don’t get competitive, you’ll be late for work.” 

“Okay,” he agrees, “but I love love love love—” 

She end the call before he can say anything else, leaving him grinning stupidly at his own face in the window. 

He looks as happy as he is. 

Good. 


End file.
